Through Foreign Eyes

The story of Zerihun

Observing the streets of Nazret and one of the poorest Kebeles (neighborhood)

Foreigner! I am constantly reminded that this is my primary identity in Nazret, Ethiopia. I see and experience things differently than my Ethiopian friends and neighbors. Does this make me better or does this make me worse? Everyone has an opinion. I acknowledge I am biased. I see as a foreigner, I write as a foreigner. My tale is incomplete, another would tell it differently, but I am inviting you to see through my eyes.

Always the observer I perch on the balcony of a local hotel. The balcony is quiet; I sip my coke and peer onto the streets below. For Once my presence is not known and will not skew people’s actions. The road beneath me is the main road that runs from the capital city to the ports in Djibouti. Huge trucks crowd the streets as bicycles, motorcycles, and the blue and white bejudges (3-wheeled taxis) slip in and out trying to show the truck who’s truly in charge. Cars and land cruisers make an appearance as small children between their giant parents. The roads are subject to a constant stream of vehicles but men, women, and children scamper across the streets whenever a slight break presents. The young men and women walk about in crisp jeans and bright, fresh T-shirts still full of color. They carry notebooks filled with notes from a local college or university. Business men and women walk briskly in dress pants or skirts and nice neatly pressed tops. Their shoes fight to hold their shine on the dusty streets; they seem to be winning. Young school children yell after one another and hold the hands of younger siblings on their way home. They are neatly dressed in burgundy sweaters and navy pants, their school uniform. The uniforms are hole free and clean. In their hands are school books and shinny tin lunch pails.

Exhaust fumes waft upwards; horns honk rhythmically and choruses of voices mingle, flooding the air. The dust swirls knowing it is the town’s true dictator and no one dares argue.

If you ignore a whole group of people the town appears secure economically. But you can’t ignore the other group. Before long a little ragged child comes up and tugs at your hand or sleeve crying, “Money, Bread.” She puts her hand to her mouth and you wish you had food to give her. Her feet are bare, vulnerable to the rocks, stones and broken glass that pebble the streets. Nearby her mother stands in clothes that look as old as her, and she looks ancient (though she may very well be 25), a baby sucks at her breast while she extends her hand towards a man passing by in hopes of some money. The beggars are scattered throughout the street, young children without parents, others with their mothers, babies with only a shirt, and men with crazy hair and wild eyes. An occasional old man or woman with a hunched back clinging to a stick their worn bodies covered with piles of clothing complete the cast.

The town is a myriad of people separated into two groups; the haves and the have-nots. The main street showcases the different people who make up Nazret as they mingle together.

Leaving the main streets and heading into one of the poorest kebeles (neighborhoods), the constant roar of vehicles is gone. Rugged unpaved roads frame rusty, cramped residential areas. The steady stream of trucks vanishes, cars dare not enter, motorbikes have sought hiding, and even the bejudges (taxis) are scarce. An occasional bike passes by. The horse and gharry (cart) have replaced the bejudge as the main means of public transportation. Sukes (small roadside stands) frame the road side displaying their wares; fabric, fruit, vegetables, or other household items.

Dusty, faded clothing replaces the bright colors of town. The women wear patterned dresses that are little more than two pieces of cloth sewn together. The dresses drape the women with no special tailoring, one size fits all. Their hair is wrapped in a faded scarf to keep it out of their way and to shelter it from dust, showers are a luxury to expensive to afford. No neatly tailored or pressed skirts and blouses are seen here. The men have vanished with the exception of an occasional wild eyed scantily clad man. The children wear clothing that is either too big or too small for their skinny bodies. The clothes are worn thin a sign of three or four previous owners. Holes add character. The small children run around without pants; they can squat anywhere to do their business. Private toilets are unheard of. The public toilets are a shack with a hole in the ground.

Dirt roads diverge from the rugged stony road leading in towards the houses. The houses are really long mud or cement buildings with tin roofs, composed of a series of rooms with a door to the outside. Whole families live in one room roughly eight feet by eight feet.

Goats and chickens run about thankful that this is the Ethiopian Orthodox fasting period. They have forty more days to live; unless they are Muslim or Protestant than they any meet their demise sooner. An ox lies in the dirt next to a dilapidated aluminum fence. He is unfazed by those who pass by. The sun is heave overhead; it is too hot to leave the shade.

Rusty aluminum fencing block houses from view. If you lean on it the fence would fall over, what its purpose is I am not really sure. The exhaust fumes are gone but the rotting, sweet smell of manure and the sour smell of human waste sift through the air. Here too the dust knows it is in charge. Hands and feet turn gritty.

I stand out here. I am a rarity. People pause to stare. What is a foreigner doing in the poor area of town? Foreigners are found on the main streets or in the nicer kebele’s not here amongst the cities’ refuse. What am I doing here? What am I doing in an area where I obviously don’t belong?

I am here to visit the home of a young boy. I am here to capture his story, to give a name to the chaos of kebele0-7. The boy’s name is Zerihun Geta. He is fifteen years old and learning in grade 5. He is an average student from a very poor family. He lost his father many years back as a result of illness. Though he lives with his mother and two younger siters he is considered an orphan. He has been receiving assistance from a local organization for the past five years. With this assistance he can go to school, he receives medicine, clothing, and some other basic necessities. After all he is a child who deserves to be taken care of.

His mother is poor she makes little money by baking injera and doing some household chores, but it is not enough to pay the 80 birr ($8) per month rent, feed, clothe, and educate her three children. She works hard and she desires to care for her family.

They live in a compound with many other poor families. Inside the compound are two long cement and mud buildings with half a dozen rooms each. There are children running about. The courtyard is filled with young girls washing dishes, women doing laundry or cooking on open flames, and a man ironing his clothes. Goats, chicken, sheep, and cats crowd the yard. There is a tiny outhouse and cattle bedding place further filling the cramped courtyard. I follow Zerihun’s mother back through a narrow passage between the two buildings, under laundry hanging to dry. She lives in a tiny room located between the two buildings, under laundry hanging to dry. She lives in a tiny room located at the end of one building, next to the compound wall; her door has just enough room to pen without hitting the side of the other building that shadows her room.

Her room is small and bare. She brushes a pile of clothes off the sole bench and sits on a tiny foam mattress big enough perhaps foer her five year old daughter. A larger mattress is rolled up to create a little more space. Besides, the bench, mattresses and clothes, there are few other items completing her meager possessions. She lives here with her three children. They have no running water, no bathroom, and no kitchen. Zerihun’s mother smiles and offers me tea or coffee. I politely refuse. She has nothing. I do not need this small luxury. She is gracious, happy that I have visited her.

Life is hard for Zerihun and his family. Life is hard for the residents of kebele 0-7. Zehrihun receives some aid but it is not enough to bring his family out of their poverty. He and his mother are thankful for the aid they are receiving but they are suffering and they are surrounded by suffering.

As I leave kebele 0-7 and head back to my comfortable life I am left with questions. How can the lives of children like Zerihun be improved? How can an impat be made on the lives of the poor? With so many suffering , too few jobs, and too few resources what difference can I make? Will changing the life of one child change anything? What if I was that one child, would I say it made a difference? Dare we risk helping this child? Dare we not risk helping him?

The questions simply multiply. They are too many to work through, besides its time for me to go home, take a shower, and cool off. Perhaps you will sit with these questions for awhile. Perhaps you will risk answering.

I simply, offer my observations. I offer Nazret and kebele 0-7 through the eyes of a foreigner. What do you think?